The ziggurat of metal scraps, each dredged
up from Atlantic-buried beds,
weathered away at the head of the pier.
Stateless, the misted air
carried the scent of coal
from yards, and oil
from tanks miles inland from the bay.
For its own circular faith
I chose what fit in my young fist —
a coin, silver and burnished
by tidal pressures, relieved
of its relief.
The coin still tempers me. My father,
knowing the length of a fathom,
stood bearing the fog’s toll as I waited to ask
how deep the nets were surely cast.
Today’s poem is from Stephen de Búrca’s recent debut collection Atlantic Fret (Gallery Press). He is the recipient of the inaugural Home Again Gerald Dawe Bursary
up from Atlantic-buried beds,
weathered away at the head of the pier.
Stateless, the misted air
carried the scent of coal
from yards, and oil
from tanks miles inland from the bay.
For its own circular faith
I chose what fit in my young fist —
a coin, silver and burnished
by tidal pressures, relieved
of its relief.
The coin still tempers me. My father,
knowing the length of a fathom,
stood bearing the fog’s toll as I waited to ask
how deep the nets were surely cast.
Today’s poem is from Stephen de Búrca’s recent debut collection Atlantic Fret (Gallery Press). He is the recipient of the inaugural Home Again Gerald Dawe Bursary
